The Mistletoe Inn

by Richard Paul Evans

  “What are we doing today?” I asked.

  “We’ve got cooking to do,” he said. “And, of course, dinner at the Jade Dragon.”

  “Of course,” I said. Every Christmas Eve, except during the years I was married to Marcus, my father and I had gone out to dinner for Chinese at the Jade Dragon Restaurant, a Christmas Eve tradition we’d loosely borrowed from our perennial Christmas favorite, A Christmas Story—the movie with Ralphie and his Red Ryder BB gun. “I have a little shopping to do.”

  “Just take the car,” he said.

  I had already purchased my father’s Christmas presents; I just wanted to get out, hoping to keep ahead of my panic attacks. I also wanted to scout out some car dealerships. They were open, of course, and there were people inside. As I said, there are always those last-minute Christmas purchases.

  If I was trying to outrun my anxiety, I was failing. You can’t outrun fog. As the evening fell my anxiety grew worse. My father recognized it, of course. I’m sure he was expecting it. We went to dinner at six. My father told jokes and funny stories about the VA, but I just grew more somber. We finished our meal and drove home, my father growing increasingly uncomfortable with my moodiness.

  As we walked into the house he asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “You know what’s wrong,” I said. “I hate Christmas.”

  “I know,” he said. “You always have. At least since . . .”

  “Since my mother annihilated it?” I said, saying what he wouldn’t.

  He paused, and for a moment there was just silence. Then my father said, “Honey, I need to tell you something about your mother.”

  “I don’t want to talk about her.”

  “I know. And for years I’ve honored your feelings. But this time, you’re going to listen to me. Let’s go in the family room.”

  I was stunned by the gravity of his voice. My father had never before spoken to me this way about my mother. I followed him into the family room and sat down on the couch across from his chair. He took a deep breath and looked at me with a somber expression.

  “Kim, it wasn’t easy raising you alone, especially after all you went through. But I did my best. I’m sorry I wasn’t a better father.”

  I looked at him incredulously. “Don’t say that. You’re the best father I could ever have.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve always believed in letting you be you and make your own decisions. But sometimes I think that might have been a mistake. There’ve been times in my life when I’ve remained silent when I should have spoken up. Like when you married Marcus. I knew he was rotten. I should have told you no. I don’t know if you would have listened to me, but I regret not doing more to stop that.

  “But there’s one thing that I feel even worse about than Marcus and that’s your mother. There’s something you need to know about her—something that I don’t think you fully understand—and you need to understand. You need to listen to me carefully.” He leaned forward, and even though he looked old and tired, his eyes were strong and clear. “Kim, you need to know that I not only loved your mother, I still do. And knowing what I know now, I would marry her all over again.”

  I couldn’t believe what he was saying. “Why?”

  “I knew your mother at her best. You don’t know that side of her, but she was sunshine. She was my one true love. She healed me from the pain of war. She was there in my hardest times. She was there in my nightmares.

  “When you were little, you thought your mother’s name was Tessa. That’s because you heard me call her by my nickname for her, Tesoro. That’s Italian for treasure. That’s what she was to me. My treasure.

  “The first years of our marriage were beautiful. She struggled a little with depression, it ran in her family, but she fought it and she always came back.

  “It wasn’t until after she gave birth to you that she went into the deepest depression I had ever seen in her. It was something chemical. She fought it for years. She did everything every doctor, every counselor, told her to do.

  “One time, at a holistic counselor’s advice, she went off all of her medications cold turkey. I sat with her through the night as she went through withdrawal. She sweated out her clothing and shook and wept, but she didn’t give up. She did whatever she thought she had to do. Not for herself, but for you and me. But it didn’t get better; it got worse. It began to overcome her.

  “Depression is a horrible thing. It overtakes a person like a parasite, feeding off their hope and self-esteem until there’s nothing left. Mom wasn’t trying to run away from you or me, she was trying to run away from the monster that was eating her from the inside out.

  “What happened when she took her life was unimaginably painful for you. And for me. But you need to know how hard she fought to be with us. In the end, she lost the battle, but she fought as courageously as anyone I’ve ever seen.” He looked into my eyes. “Now answer me honestly. If cancer overtook me now, would you think that I had abandoned you?”

  I began to cry. “Of course not.”

  “No. You wouldn’t. And you shouldn’t with your mother. People make judgments about suicide and depression based on their own experience, but that’s like me describing the surface of Mars. I’ve never been there. I can only guess what it’s like.

  “Depression alters the mind’s ability to think rationally. Things that would horrify someone in their right mind suddenly seem like a good idea. Like ending their life. They might even believe that they’re doing the right thing for those they love.” A tear fell down my father’s cheek. “Before her death, she left a letter. In it, she said that she had finally set me and you free to be happy. She thought it was the right thing.”

  I was quiet for a moment, then said softly, “You want me to forgive her?”

  To my surprise he shook his head. “Forgiving her won’t help her. She’s gone. What I want is for you to forgive yourself.”

  “Forgive myself for what?”

  “One thing I know is that somewhere deep inside, in spite of what we tell ourselves, part of all survivors believe that they could have changed the outcome by doing something different.

  “Then we try to ease our pain with anger. But anger isn’t strength. It only masks itself as strength. It’s weakness. At its core, it’s fear. Fear of facing what might be the truth.”

  I bowed my head. My mind felt as if it were spinning.

  “I should have talked to you about this much, much sooner. But for so many years I didn’t understand all this myself. I was struggling with my own paradox. You see, Mom’s depression changed after she gave birth to you. If she had never given birth . . .”

  I looked up. “You’re saying it’s my fault?”

  “Absolutely not,” he said firmly. “You had no say in the matter. But I did. And I’ve wondered so many times . . .” He looked down. When he looked back up there were tears in his eyes. “She knew. In her last letter, she wrote, ‘I would do it again for my Kimberly. She is the one beautiful light to shine from my darkness. Even if I cannot be the mother I want to be, the mother she deserves, I have never regretted my decision to have her.’ ”

  My father began to openly cry. Then, at that moment, a dam of emotion broke, flooding through my entire being. I began sobbing. My father came over and put his arms around me as my body heaved.

  It took me a while to realize what was happening. After all these years I was finally mourning my mother.

  My father held me for a long while. After I finally began to calm, he said, “Let’s go to bed.” He helped me up and went into the bathroom. He came out holding a warm, wet washcloth, which he handed to me.

  “You’ve been through something traumatic tonight. I want you to not think about it anymore but put this on your face and relax. Your mind needs to rest. An army psychiatrist told me that helps.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Kim,” he said. “Remember, our best years are ahead of us.”

  We hugged and I went to
my room. I turned out the lights, lay back in bed, and put the hot cloth on my face. I did my best to clear my mind. For the first Christmas Eve in years I felt peace. “Merry Christmas,” I said to myself. “And a happy New Year.” I quickly fell asleep.

  CHAPTER

  Thirty-nine

  Nothing done with joy is done in vain.

  Kimberly Rossi’s Diary

  My father woke me the next morning with his Bible in hand and a cheerful “Merry Christmas.” It had always been our tradition to read from the second chapter of Luke on Christmas morning. Afterward we went out to the tree and opened presents. I had bought him a big bag of turkey jerky, socks, a plush bathrobe, and a book on raising saltwater fish. “You can take that back,” I said.

  He had bought me a new laptop computer. “This is too much,” I said.

  “It’s for your writing,” he said. “And here.” He handed me another present to unwrap. Inside was a describer’s dictionary. “I read online that that really helps.”

  I didn’t know what to say. “Dad, no one’s going to publish me.”

  “Who cares?” he said. “I’m not going to get signed by a record label but it doesn’t stop me from singing in the shower.”

  “It should,” I said, laughing.

  He also laughed. “It should, but it won’t. So you write because you love to write. It’s how you sing. Remember that.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks, Dad.”

  After we opened our presents we had our traditional Christmas morning breakfast of crepes with apricot jam and whipped cream. My father made the world’s best crepes.

  “It was a profound night last night,” he said as we ate. “How’d you sleep?”

  “I slept really well. The best I have in years.” I smiled. “At least until I woke with a cold, wet washcloth on my face.”

  He smiled.

  I took another bite of crepe, then said, “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. And I think it’s time for some change in my life. So I’ve made a decision. I’m moving back home.” I looked into his eyes. “If that’s okay.”

  A smile spread across his face. “That’s wonderful.”

  “That way I can be here if you need any help and just be with you. I miss it here.”

  “That makes me so happy,” he said. “That’s the best Christmas present ever.”

  “Good. So I’ll start looking for a job tomorrow.” I ate a little more, then I said, “You know, it’s strange, but I have a feeling that you’re right. Maybe our best years are still to come.”

  My father, who hadn’t stopped smiling since my announcement, said, “Oh, they are, honey. More than you know. Now hurry up and eat. We’ve got cooking to do.”

  As we got ready for Christmas dinner I noticed that my father had placed an extra setting at the table. “Will Chuck or Joel be joining us?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “No. I’m sorry, I didn’t tell you, Chuck passed away.”

  I stopped washing the potatoes. “When?”

  “While you were at the conference. I was with him when he went. I’m grateful for that. No one should die alone.”

  “How’s Joel doing?” I asked. “I was thinking of looking him up while I was here.”

  “That might not be a good idea,” my father said.

  “Why is that?”

  “His wife came back.”

  “Really?” I said. “That’s a surprise.”

  “It was for Joel too. He called me two weeks ago and told me that she came to see him. She asked him if he would forgive her and take her back.”

  “And he took her back?”

  “Oh yes. Sometimes, when you least expect it, people do the right thing. And the best news, they’re going to start trying to have children.”

  “He can do that? I mean, physically . . . ?”

  “No. They’ll have to use insemination. But that’s not what makes a man a father.”

  “Then Alice is coming?”

  “No,” he said. “Prying her away from her grandchildren will take a lot stronger man than I am.”

  “Her loss,” I said.

  “She’s perfectly happy with the situation. Something about grandchildren is magical. I hope to discover that myself someday.”

  “Pressure,” I said. “Then who’s coming?”

  “Just a business associate of mine. I’ve been helping him with a project. He lives back east and was here alone on business, so I invited him over. He’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  “What kind of project?” I asked.

  “Nothing too exciting. Personnel stuff. He ran into one of my old employees from Maverick. She told him about me and he was looking for someone in Vegas.

  “But here’s the remarkable part—he’s friends with Dr. Bangerter. He’s the one who arranged for him to see me. In fact, he has so much clout, Dr. Bangerter actually came to the house to meet with me.”

  “One of the top oncologists in the country made a house call?”

  “I know, you could have knocked me over with a feather. I guess it helps to have the right friends.”

  “I’m so happy, Dad.”

  As I went back to the potatoes, the doorbell rang.

  “Unless you’re expecting someone,” my father said, “that’s probably our guest. Would you mind getting the door?”

  “Sure.” I started walking toward the foyer. “What’s his name?”

  “You’ll know,” he said.

  “Why would I know?”

  “Just trust me.”

  I opened the door. Zeke was standing on our front porch.

  CHAPTER

  Forty

  A new song has begun.

  Kimberly Rossi’s Diary

  I just stood there. The moment was like something out of a dream and I was frozen in it, unsure of what to do next.

  Zeke smiled. “I take it your father didn’t tell you I was coming.”

  “No.”

  My father walked up behind me. “Kim, show some manners. Invite Zeke in.”

  “Sorry,” I said, still in shock. I stepped back as Zeke walked into our house. My father and Zeke shook hands.

  “How are you, Rob?” Zeke asked.

  “Well, thank you. And very grateful. Dr. Bangerter has been very helpful. Thank you for making this possible.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” he said.

  I stood there, my eyes darting back and forth between the two of them. “How do you know each other?”

  “He called,” my father said, as if it were just the most natural thing in the world. “He asked for my permission to date my daughter and I said yes. You know, he’s the first man you’ve dated who had the class to call me.” He turned back to Zeke. “We’re still getting ready to eat. I’ll give you two a moment to catch up.”

  “Thank you,” Zeke said.

  As my father walked out of the room Zeke turned back to me. “Merry Christmas,” he said.

  I was still in shock. “Thank you for helping my father.”

  “I can see why you idolize him. He’s a good man.”

  I stood there still unsure of what to say.

  “I’m guessing that you were surprised to learn that Zeke Faulkner and H. T. Cowell are the same man.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were H. T. Cowell?”

  “You never asked.”

  “That’s not something I usually go around asking people.”

  He grinned. “That’s understandable.”

  “Why did you say your name was Zeke?”

  “I’ve gone by Zeke my whole life. H. T. stands for Hezekiah Tobias,” he said. “Hezekiah. Who names a child Hezekiah? Tell me you wouldn’t go by Zeke too.”

  In spite of my emotion I almost smiled. “Why did you go to the writers’ conference?”

  “I was invited to speak,” he said. “My publisher decided that it would be the perfect timing for my ‘coming out,’ which is why there was so much national press. But I went to the conference early to be with the
unpublished writers. That was for me. I wanted to feel their passion. I wanted to remember why it was I started writing to begin with. If I had told them who I was they would have acted different.”

  He was right about that. I wouldn’t have been able to talk to him.

  “I wanted to talk to you after your speech,” I said. “But I didn’t know what to say after behaving so badly. Twice.” I looked into his eyes. “I didn’t think you would want to see me.”

  He looked at me for a moment, then said, “I told you in New York that I had fallen in love with you. I had. After the retreat I couldn’t get you off my mind. I wasn’t going to give up on love. I did that once before. I wasn’t going to do it again.”

  “How did you find us?”

  “That part was easy. You told me that your father had paid for the retreat, so I called the organizers and asked for his contact information. I called your father and introduced myself. I told him that you and I had met at the conference and that I would like his permission to court his daughter and that my intentions were honorable.”

  “Honorable,” I repeated. “He must have loved that.”

  Zeke smiled. “He seemed impressed. But trust me, he wasn’t easy on me. So I thought it best that I flew out to meet him. I told him that we had had a difficult parting and I asked his advice on how best to approach you. He thought that the best time for me to see you would be now. So I made arrangements to return.”

  “And the doctor?”

  “I knew how upset you were about the treatment your father was receiving. I’ve raised millions of dollars for the Henderson Institute, and Dr. Bangerter once said that if he could ever do anything for me to just ask. So I asked. It was a token of my appreciation to your father for his help. And maybe a little bribe.”

  “A bribe?”

  “It’s the law of reciprocity. I knew that if I made some magnanimous gesture you would at least have to give me a chance to win back your love.”

  “You never lost it,” I said.

  For a moment we looked at each other, then we kissed.

  After several minutes of kissing, Zeke leaned back and said excitedly, “I have a Christmas present for you.” He took an envelope from his jacket and handed it to me.